


Smarter Than You

by sherwoodfox



Series: The Tortoise and the Hare [3]
Category: Lost
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 04:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15453222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherwoodfox/pseuds/sherwoodfox
Summary: John Locke was a believer, and unfortunately, Ben Linus was very, very easy to believe in.





	Smarter Than You

**Author's Note:**

> Set during/shortly after the events of 'The Man Behind the Curtain' (Season 3). Enjoy!

"So I guess that makes me smarter than you, John.”

**BANG!**

_John_

John Locke was too much fun to play with. 

Ben watched his body fall into the pit of corpses, stumbling at first as though he might catch himself, but ultimately failing. He relished the look of shock on John’s face, loved how true and complete the surprise was, enjoying the knowledge that the other man hadn't expected this at all. The open look didn't change to realization until he hit the bottom of the pit, and even then it took a few more seconds for it to come to understanding, for him to fully comprehend what had happened to him. Betrayed again, how in the world could that have happened? His mouth was gaping like a fish, from the pain in his heart and the abdominal wound blossoming fresh blood into his shirt. And his eyes were still so clear, the blue open and shutterless, shining light directly into his soul and exposing all of the twisted emotions there. It was almost cute, how he looked up, unable to reconcile his situation with reality.

Someone else might think that he would have learned by now, but Ben knew better. He knew exactly what John Locke was.

It wasn't that he was unintelligent, no, there were far greater idiots out there in the world than he. His mind was perfectly capable, even sharp at times, seeing patterns and understanding them quicker than the average numbskull that paraded through life, with a jabbering mouth and no ears to listen with and a gun in one hand. But despite that, he was an incredible fool. How could it be described? An intelligent fool. A man who had a marvellous mind that he never used- or rather, didn't want to use, at least not in the situations that mattered most. Not when it came to certain people. Not when it came to those he wanted to _love._

And this was because, at his core, John was not an intelligent or rational man- he was a _believer._ And believers could be the most intelligent of people and still make terribly stupid decisions, because what owned them was their feelings, not their mind. Was this explaining it well? Perhaps not. Believers were common things, after all, and John was something marvellously special.

John didn't just believe- he _needed_ to believe. Yes, that was it, that hit the nail on the head, that's what John was. He was addicted to believing, and in all the worst ways, he couldn't function without it as a heroin addict couldn't function without their powdered poison. And it didn’t matter what or who he was following, not at all. He just needed something to hold on to, something to make him feel as though he had a greater purpose- and something to tell him what to do. He was an obedient man, yes, though he wouldn't want to be described that way- he couldn't really progress unless he had someone else to command him. 

And the terrible irony of his character was that John always believed in things that weren't true. Perhaps he even sought that out- things so untrustworthy anyone else would have abandoned them, that's what John wanted, that's what he loved, believing the unbelievable. Even when he was let down, again and again and again.

As a younger man he had attached this need to his ugly con man father, latching on like a parasite, believing that he was loved as a son and had a place in that man’s life. It hadn't mattered, none of it, it wasn't about a parental relationship or male companionship, John had just needed to have someone to untrustworthy to trust- and trusted he had, over and over, even when it had led to his destruction. His kidney stolen, the love of his life abandoning him, finding himself flung from an eight-story building- and still he had clung to that man, desperate, still obsessed and unable to let him go.

_Sound familiar?_

And then there had been the _hatch,_ stupid thing, stupid button in its stupid room with its stupid little story. _Saving the world._ It didn't matter what it was, John had believed in it, it had given him the purpose and direction he had required, the commands he was addicted to. John never questioned enough- he never asked why he was pressing the button, not really, he never wanted to know how it worked or where it had come from or who had put it there, what mattered was that something had told him to push it and he wanted to believe. He wanted to obey. He wanted to be part of the experiment, he wanted to be fooled.

He attached this need to the Island itself, capitalized because that was how John said it, like it was a special word. A place where miracles happened? Miracles, and other things, haha. Something else to believe in, something else to follow, something else to put his trust in, even if it was unwarranted.

_Especially if it was unwarranted._

And oh, it was sweet how John wanted to think he was the leader, wanted to think himself strong and independent and capable of making his own rational decisions- _don't tell me what I can't do-_ but he wasn't like that. If he was, he wouldn't drift from thing to thing like he did. He wouldn't always be searching for something else to make his choices for him, some other constructed God or Island or Father or Destiny-

-or Prisoner, Lover, Enemy-

-that would tell him where to go next. Oh yes, at his core John was a follower. A sheep. And he couldn't survive being any other way- even if he wouldn't admit it, he liked it, deep down. One could say he was in love with being tricked.

Why else would he keep coming back?

Why else would he always entertain Ben, sit and listen to what he had to say, even though he knew full well (or should know by now, anyway) that everything that came out of his mouth was a calculated move, if not an outright lie? Why else would he keep doing what Ben asked?

_Don't destroy the submarine, John, that's the only way off the island- oh, you went and did it, already? I thought you would think about it more. No matter._

Good boy.

And so Ben had done this. Consider it a little experiment, really, shooting John in the chest and leaving him to die in a pit of death. Oh, he could say he had a ‘real’ reason, something about Jacob or envy or greater purpose, he could pretend that he wanted John to die. But he didn't, and John wouldn’t die anyway, that wasn't how it worked.

What Ben _really_ wanted was to see just how far he could _push_ things.

How much could John stand before he broke? How many betrayals would he take- and what severity could those betrayals reach- before he wouldn't accept it anymore, before he would finally stop listening to what Ben had to say? As time passed Ben became increasingly sure that such a thing would never happen. The more he was fooled, the clearer Ben’s untrustworthiness became, the tighter John held on. The more desperately he clung, wanting to still believe, even if the rational part of his brain couldn't convince himself of it anymore. It was almost charming, the level of self-deception John was capable of would have made Orwell’s jaw drop.

He couldn't wait until John dragged himself out of that hole in the ground and tracked him down (he was sure it would happen that way, it simply wasn't possible for John to die like _this),_ couldn't wait to see what the expression in his eyes would be then. How he would justify trying to be with Ben, how he would rationalize opening his ears to anything Ben said, how he would manage to let loving words past his lips, if the act here would sour the atmosphere whenever John wanted to be tender. Yes, Ben wanted to know these things, he wanted to see what would happen. Wanted John to know that from now on, any misfortune brought about by his words were entirely on John’s shoulders, because after a betrayal of this magnitude- and this simplicity- he had no right to say he was deceived. 

Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice...but it had been far more than twice, now, hadn't it?

It was going to be a terrible amount of fun.

_Ben_

The pain in his abdomen was excruciating. No matter what he thought of, or how he tried to settle himself the pain was still there, throbbing and unending, pounding through his blood. The bones of the fallen Dharma Initiative ground into his back and ribs, fingers of the long-dead digging into arms and calves, skulls with gaping jaws pressed into his skin as though in preparation to bite. The steep dirt incline out of the grave seemed insurmountable from where he lay, loose roots spiralling into the sky, his nausea and the weakness in his limbs giving the world a sense of surreality. It was amazing, how much pain the human body could live with. It seemed that any second his pounding heart would fail, and he couldn't move his legs, and yet he had not died.

Why had the Island done this to him?

Why had _Ben_ done this to him?

He probably should have figured that second one out by now, but the answer eluded him. It wasn't hatred, surely, that had spurred Ben to such an action, surely he couldn't _hate_ John- or did he? Thinking of it now, John didn't know. Had it been out of necessity? That's what Ben had suggested, but he had no way of knowing if that was true. And it hurt to be betrayed like this, hurt that someone he had shared such intimacy with would do such a thing but what hurt worse was that he should have known it would happen.

Ben was a strange and indecipherable creature, an enemy who was not an enemy, a traitor who never truly betrayed anyone, as he seemed only to claim loyalty to himself. A coin- when one side was facing up, it was easy to forget that the other existed, easy to think that the one presented dimension was the only thing there, when in reality there was more hidden in the dark- and in the innumerable facets between, layers upon layers of lies.

At times he could appear so _innocent,_ and that was the painful part, looking at John with those huge, flat blue eyes, glowing in his bruised and bloodied face. He was always injured, wasn't he, someone was always _hurting_ him. It made him seem so harmless, like he was the victim, a weak and delicate little man with no hope of defending himself against the savage strength of people like James, or the cold rage of Sayid, or the furious desperation of Jack. No hope of defending himself against John, even, no way to refuse. He was sure that the others had moved beyond this point, perhaps they were quicker to learn, but Ben could still make John seriously doubt everything. Make him wonder if he really was the ‘bad guy’ and that Ben was the good one all along, all of his words acceptable at face value, horribly misunderstood and used by the survivors as a substitute for some imagined foe. Oh, that really hit the bullseye, Ben could make it feel like John was _using_ him, being so submissive, acting like he had no choice and even, possibly, didn't want it, too. John was only ever gentle with him when he was like that, kissing his wounds and holding him and swallowing the soft little sighs he made, acting like they were in love, and both entirely pure of heart. 

Those feelings always turned to lead in John’s chest eventually, when the pendulum swung back around and it became clear that Ben was the one using _him._

Yes, at other times Ben seemed inconceivably cold. Evil, even, and that word applied even though to John it had only ever before been something used in fiction, not the real world, and it was a horrible feeling but it was true, Ben was _evil._ The things he did and said were terribly cruel, and the things he made people do were worse. John never knew it was happening until it was over- he never realized that he was doing exactly what Ben wanted him to do until he had done it. _Good boy,_ that's what Ben called him during those times, in a very dry and sarcastic and almost arrogant voice, like he had John pinned down exactly where he wanted him. A trained dog on a leash. It was humiliating, and it was even more humiliating to know that he was right. And Ben’s eyes were always the same- huge, empty blue orbs with nothing in them save John’s reflection. Giving nothing away, only taking. He would hurt Ben when he was like that, or someone else would, in the burning anger of the moment feeling entirely justified, and then later he would be consumed by guilt and self-doubt. 

There was no winning with Ben. No good ending, no way to fit together comfortably. 

And what made him crazy was that John didn't know whether this fact was _his_ fault, if he was a bad man and an abusive lover, or if Ben was simply a monster.

But none of that mattered now- Ben had tried to kill him. He may have succeeded.

And so John sat there drowning in the pain for a while until he saw the gun, and then he reached for it, and then Walt came and told him what to do next. And as he stood again, strong and persevering, as he pulled himself up and set himself on his new path, he started making promises to lift the weight in his heart. The Island had saved him, his life had meaning, and he had to live up to its expectations; he had to be a better man. And so he told himself that it was over- regardless of how he felt, how confused he was, what ached in his chest when he thought of the other man, it had to end. He would never go back to Ben now, he would never again listen to his stories, he would never hold him and he would let all of these terrible emotions go. Any interactions John had with him would be purely of necessity, nothing more. Any possibility for love had been killed between them, it was buried where John had fallen.

It didn't matter that when he told himself this, there was another voice in the back of his head, whispering in a tone that sounded remarkably like Ben himself; saying, though John didn't want to hear it, that none of that was true, and the moment Ben looked at him again with those horrible eyes all of his promises would dissolve like ashes in the wind.

It didn't matter that he knew the voice was right.

_Afterwards_

Ben’s eyes darted in their sockets, fluttering over different parts of John’s face, tracing his shoulders, and the trees overhead and the foliage off to one side. He didn't blink, but then, he rarely did that anyway. He was trembling in John’s arms, quivers in his more delicate frame apparent as Locke pressed himself in closer, it was like he was afraid. That broke something in John, it always did, and he laid gentle kisses along Ben’s temple, down his cheeks to his throat, smoothing out the shaking like one would adjust a bedspread.

“Shh,” he murmured into Ben’s skin, just over one nasty yellow bruise from weeks before that hadn't healed yet. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

Ben let out a sweet little sigh, a very tiny noise, and though it could mean anything, anything at all, John liked the sound of it.

“Aren't you mad at me?” he said into John’s ear, and his voice sounded weak and desperate and out-of-control, he was still trembling, his breathing slightly erratic against John’s chest. The question made his heart hurt, and his head too, it was too _big_ of a question- trying to answer it would mean opening a door to a very dark place inside, a place John didn't want to touch for fear that when unlocked it would never close again; all those rotting emotions might flood out and leave him to drown in them, and that was the last thing he wanted right now. He wanted to be gentle. He wanted the comfort of comforting someone.

“You should be.” added Ben, and the tone of his voice was slightly different, something cold and sharp creeping in underneath the softness and the fear. John didn't want to hear it; when he put his hand over Ben’s heart to feel it, the beat was perfectly calm and steady, and the knowledge of it made him feel sick to his stomach. Was everything an act, with this man?

“Don't say that,” John said after a while and to prove he was serious he kissed Ben on the mouth, chaste but long, wishing he could swallow all of the words Ben had ever said and would ever say, for without them he would surely be a much sweeter creature. 

Ben closed his eyes slowly- like that his face seemed shut off, beacons snuffed out in an otherwise dark expanse- and opened them again when John pulled away, they drilled into his skull, somehow both arrogant and accusatory. Any emotion could be imprinted in that stare with scarcely a change of expression, and it was terrifying, but also abstractly appealing.

“Don't look at me like that,” John said, and then, realizing that he had told Ben essentially the same thing twice in a row he added, “but you do look much cuter with your eyes open.”

Ben raised one eyebrow at that and blinked very slowly to spite him, and while they were closed John pressed a kiss to the fragile skin of each eyelid. Ben seemed very fragile right now, wrapped submissively in John’s embrace, but he knew that it wasn't true. Ben was never fragile, not really.

His hand reached up John’s side to the wound, a tender bandaged area where Ben’s bullet had ripped through the skin and muscle, metal tearing through the soft human tissue and breaking blood vessels open. He touched it gently, but also almost _possessively,_ and his eyes stopped moving around so much, fixated on John’s face like a laser beam. 

“You'll let me do anything to you, won't you?” he purred, making his voice high and breathy and a little seductive, in a very dry and Ben-like way. But John didn't know whether he should laugh and brush it off, or consider those words more deeply, because they promised something very, very dangerous. And all of the weakness in Ben had drained away now, he was back to being cold and prideful and unkind, the facade of vulnerability he had been wearing since John had found him and pinned him to the ground slipping off like a sheet. A cruel curiosity came over his face then, turning his head to the side like a cat, deadly eyes frying John like a bug under a magnifying glass.

“Tell me what happened...how you got out.” 

John shook his head, caressing some of the split skin along Ben’s browbone. 

“No. I don't want to talk right now.”

He didn't want to talk with Ben, no, that was always a genuine physical challenge and he was exhausted right now, he didn't know if he would be strong enough to let the words break over his mind instead of sinking in through the cracks, working him to Ben’s will again. The other man seemed to consider his response for a moment, his eyes as cold as ice, and then he offered a cute little shrug, pulling the frightening part of himself back inside, seeming to melt again in John’s arms into something ordinary and understandable and almost lovely.

“We can do other things. You’ve put us in the position for that.” he said, giving a clumsy little wiggle against John’s hips and now he did laugh, and he felt relieved, because in a way that was all he had wanted here- not to think of pain and betrayal and other terrible things, just to enjoy Ben’s company, pretend that the two did not go inherently hand in hand. And then Ben opened his mouth to say something else but John kissed him before the words could get out, sealing whatever sweet nectar or bitter poison had been on his tongue with warm lips, inhaling the smell of his skin; it was fascinating, in a way, the others on the island always had the kind of perfume one would expect- sweat and fruit and blood, human body odour, and John was sure he was like that too- but Ben always smelled of nothing. Dust. Like he wasn't really there. And depending on the day his mouth also tasted of nothing, or it tasted of blood. Today it was the former. It was nice.

But as John started to undo the buttons on Ben’s shirt a little thought wriggled to life in his brain, a sour thought, like the breath of a long-dead and festering corpse, an image of the untamed grave he had been left in- _John Locke, the man you’re undressing is a mass murderer._

He shuddered, his body suddenly cold, and Ben made a little humming sound, looking up at him with wide eyes. Such an innocent expression. Locke wanted very much to believe it was genuine.

“Is something the matter?” he said, and John shook his head, shook the thought from his brain and the chill from his heart, forcing it behind locked doors in his mind, because he couldn't bear to confront it, not right now, not yet. Possibly not ever.

And Ben was smiling at him slightly, just a little quirk of his lips, and it was repulsive that John was not repulsed by the sight. 

Fervently he kissed a line across Ben’s collarbones, following revealed skin as each button slipped from its holster and all the while he furiously buried the sick and terrified feeling in his stomach, and tried very, very hard to believe.


End file.
